


Silent Things

by toyhto



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Inception Bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: New scars, old regrets.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 76
Collections: Inception Trope/Kink Bingo 2020





	Silent Things

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [queubird](https://queuebird.tumblr.com/), thank you so much! All the remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This might be soft kind of Explicit but at least no one's going to be shocked.
> 
> So I saw Taboo the show and had some intense early 19th century Hardy feelings and there was Historical AU in my Inception Bingo trope card so, here we go.

”I hear Arthur’s alive,” Ariadne said one morning.   
  
Eames raised his eyes from  _ The Times. _ Ariadne was looking at him as if Arthur being alive meant nothing. It was sort of comforting.   
  
“What?” he asked.   
  
“They say he’s going to take over his father’s company,” Ariadne said, pouring herself more tea. She had this habit of drinking when she was nervous. Or maybe she just wanted more tea - who could blame her?   
  
“He never gave a shit about the company,” Eames said and took a sip of his tea. It was a cold morning. It was snowing outside, and his toes were freezing. The tea was hot, though, and his heart was pounding in his chest. Apparently, he was still more than capable of feeling. That should have been a nice surprise, but he couldn’t quite concentrate on it.   
  
“I know,” Ariadne said. “I remember. Maybe he’s changed.”   
  
Eames chewed on his lower lip. People certainly changed. But there was another thing. “Honey, Arthur’s dead.”   
  
“I  _ know _ ,” Ariadne said, staring at him over the cup of tea. She looked lovely this morning. She always did. “I’m perfectly aware that we’ve thought for ten years that he’s dead. But stranger things have happened.”   
  
Well, that was a lie. “Who told you he’s alive?” Eames asked. He sounded calmer than he felt. It was a small miracle, considering what they were talking about. Maybe Ariadne didn’t even notice that his hands were shaking.   
  
“Mal,” Ariadne said.   
  
“Mal –“   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Who told her?”   
  
“She said,” Ariadne said slowly, putting her cup of tea back on the table, “she  _ said  _ that she saw him.”   
  
“She saw Arthur?”   
  
“That’s what she said.”   
  
“How did she –“   
  
“Arthur was there,” Ariadne said, “at their house. They had tea.”   
  
Eames cleared his throat. “Arthur had tea with them?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“So,” Eames said, “Mal’s seen him, and Dom’s seen him. They both saw him.”   
  
“Yes,” Ariadne said, watching him carefully, the way she did the morning after the wedding.   
  
“Alright,” Eames said and turned a page of the newspaper. There had been a horse carriage accident just around the corner. Terrible, just terrible. “Any special plans for today?”   
  
“No, nothing at all,” Ariadne answered, which meant that she had absolutely no inclination to tell him.   
  
“Brilliant,” he said, and drank his tea.   
  
  


**

  
  
He spent the whole day wondering if he should ask Ariadne where Arthur was staying. Or if he should ask Dom. He didn’t even know if Ariadne knew. If she knew, why hadn’t she already told him?   
  
Well, obviously the reason why she would not have told him was the same reason why he hesitated to ask. He was quite certain all his cards regarding the matter had been on the table for ten years, but they hadn’t ever talked about it. And it hadn’t mattered before. Arthur had been dead. Whatever Ariadne thought she knew or didn’t know about Eames and Arthur hadn't mattered, because Arthur had been dead. And anyway, Eames liked to gamble. If there was even the slightest chance that Ariadne hadn’t seen his cards yet, he sure as hell wasn’t going to show her.   
  
But if Arthur really was alive – and he had to be, because there was no reason for Mal to lie about it to Ariadne, and no reason for Ariadne to lie about it to Eames – if Arthur was alive, everything was different. It mattered now. And if it was somehow still a secret, Eames wasn’t going to just hand it over to Ariadne. And that was exactly what would happen if he asked Ariadne where he could find Arthur.   
  
But he had to find Arthur.   
  
He could ask Dom. He knew where Dom and Mal lived. It was twenty minutes’ walk - ten if you took the carriage, five if the streets were empty. And Dom  _ knew _ . The bastard wouldn’t be the least surprised to see Eames at his door, which was exactly why Eames didn’t want to go there. Also, he hated Dom, always had, and it didn’t have anything to do with Arthur.   
  
Alright, it had something to do with Arthur. But not much.   
  
Alright, it had everything to do with Arthur. Arthur had listened to Dom and gotten killed, only apparently he hadn’t got killed after all.   
  
After dinner, Eames told Ariadne he was taking a walk. She didn’t look like she knew where he was going. He tried to walk slowly but couldn’t, and then he almost got run over by a carriage when he crossed the street without looking around first. When he finally got to Dom and Mal’s door, he was short of breath and a bit hot despite the freezing weather, and he regretted everything bitterly. He should have asked Ariadne where Arthur was. Or made several different choices over the course of his entire life. But since changing the past wasn’t an option, he knocked on the door.   
  
Dom didn’t look surprised to see Eames at his doorstep. Eames wanted to punch him in the face for it.   
  
“He’s not here,” Dom said.   
  
“Who?” Eames asked. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it? Ariadne says hello, by the way.”   
  
Dom squinted at him.   
  
“Alright,” he said and took a deep breath. Bloody fucking hell, the things he did for Arthur. Or for himself, if he was being totally honest. “So, it’s true? He’s alive?”   
  
“Yes,” Dom said. The bastard had always been a lousy liar, or much worse than Ariadne at least. But it was encouraging that he hadn’t even tried lying this time.   
  
Eames realised vaguely that he was smiling and couldn’t stop it. “I want to talk to him.”   
  
Dom stared at Eames like he was here to ask Arthur’s hand in marriage and Dom was Arthur’s father. “Maybe if he wanted to, he would’ve visited you.”   
  
“Dom,” Eames said in his most threatening voice. Dom blinked, so it was clearly working. “Tell me where he is.”   
  
Dom looked sceptical, but sighed. “Alright.”   
  
  


**

  
  
Eames didn’t see Arthur that night. He thought about it, of course, and then he went to the house where Dom had said Arthur was staying, walked around the block four times, and went home. Ariadne didn’t ask him where he had been. He didn’t tell her. It was funny how heavy their secret was now that the person whom it was about was alive again. He didn’t sleep at all, only walked a tiny circle in his bedroom and then, when he couldn’t help it anymore, wanked efficiently and silently, leaning his palm against the closed door and his forehead against his arm. Arthur wouldn’t have minded. And God knew Eames had had every possible fantasy about the man before and after he had died. This wasn’t much different, only the guilt was fresh, and so was the yearning.   
  
The next morning, he imagined that the room still smelled of sex. Maybe the maids wouldn’t recognise the smell. Or maybe they would and had all these years, and maybe they were talking about it, whispering about the gentleman who had a very healthy relationship with his own hand. But he didn’t give a fuck. He took his cup of tea and looked at Ariadne over it. She was reading the newspaper.   
  
“I want to go to see Arthur.”   
  
“I know,” she said without looking at him.   
  
  


**

  
  
On the way to Arthur’s house he had a long conversation with himself about all the reasons he shouldn’t see Arthur again. Firstly, they hadn’t parted on good terms. Secondly, for the past ten years he’d blamed himself for Arthur’s death - almost as much as he’d blamed Dom and Arthur’s father and the bloody ship and the sea and also, on some days, God. And Arthur, of course. Thirdly, it was more than probable that Arthur still blamed Eames, too. Not for his death, of course. But there certainly were a lot of things Arthur could blame Eames for, and with a good reason.

Maybe Arthur didn’t even want to see him. Maybe Arthur didn’t care about him anymore. Maybe being dead for ten years had changed Arthur. And maybe, probably, seeing Arthur again after all this time was going to fuck up Eames’ perfectly adequate life for good.   
  
He was standing at Arthur’s doorstep, trying to decide whether to knock or not, when Arthur opened the door.   
  
“Try to make up your mind,” Arthur said.   
  
Eames stared at him.   
  
“I saw you from the window,” Arthur said, gesturing vaguely. “I thought you’d knock but you just stood there, so I thought I’d let you in. Unless you want to leave. But really, I have neighbours, so maybe you could… Eames?”   
  
“I thought you were dead,” Eames said. “I thought you had died.”   
  
Arthur frowned at him. Oh, God, it had been ten years since he’d last seen Arthur’s frown. “Come on in,” Arthur said, “I’ll make tea.”   
  
Eames stepped through the door and Arthur closed it behind him. There seemed to be no one else around, which was probably a good sign. The house wasn’t grand or anything, and Arthur made the tea himself. Eames stared at him. He had forgotten what Arthur’s fingers looked like, and Arthur’s neck, and Arthur’s shoulders, and the way Arthur moved his mouth when he was thinking about saying something but wasn’t quite ready. That was very familiar. Arthur had never been ready to say certain things, which was partly the reason why Eames still didn’t know what those things were. But he had been thinking about it for ten years, so he had a few good guesses.   
  
When Arthur passed Eames the cup of tea, Eames’ hands were shaking so much that the spoon kept clattering against the edge. Arthur ignored it. Eames put the cup on the table and stared at Arthur’s wrists. They hadn’t changed. Nothing had changed, nothing that made a difference.   
  
“You haven’t changed,” he said.   
  
“Of course I have,” Arthur said.   
  
“I meant…” Eames said and frowned. “You’re still…”   
  
“I thought you’d come sooner,” Arthur said, “or not at all.”   
  
Eames swallowed. “Of course I came.”   
  
“I heard you got married.”   
  
“Yeah,” he said and rubbed his chin. “You remember Ariadne –“   
  
“Yes,” Arthur said pointedly. “Clever. Very young.”   
  
“We’ve got a deal,” Eames said. “We don’t fuck.”   
  
“That’s not my business,” Arthur said, staring at him intently like it totally was his business.   
  
“Okay. I just thought I’d let you know.”   
  
Arthur blinked, then took a sip of his tea.   
  
“It was a convenient thing,” Eames said, because he had started now and he might as well tell the rest. “Ten years ago. She needed to get married. To avoid the hassle, you know. I think she had been engaged and then dumped the man or something. I saved her reputation and she saved mine. Because I –”   
  
“Yeah,” Arthur said.   
  
“You know.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“You were there,” Eames said and drank more tea.   
  
“Yes,” Arthur said, avoiding his eyes.   
  
“So, it’s not like we’re in love or anything,” he said. “I just need you to know that.”   
  
Arthur looked very tired.   
  
“Can I ask you about the last ten years? Or is it a bit –“   
  
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Arthur said, which meant he didn’t want to.   
  
“Alright,” Eames said. “It’s okay. You can tell me later. If you like. I’m just glad that you’re alive. I thought –“   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“We got the news about the shipwreck. Your father thought you were dead. There was a funeral –“   
  
“Eames.”   
  
“Okay, so maybe you don’t want to hear about your funeral. But I want you to know that I was there. Despite everything, I was there.”   
  
“With your wife,” Arthur said, voice sharp.   
  
“Yes,” Eames said, “with my wife. Because you had chosen to sail to goddamn India to get away from me and then you had managed to drown on the way.”   
  
“That’s not fair,” Arthur said, which he had said about everything back then. It wasn’t fair that Eames talked to him at the parties. It wasn’t fair that Eames invited him to play cards and then stay the night in one of the guestrooms. It wasn’t fair that Eames found him in the hallway on one of those nights. It wasn’t fair that Eames walked up to him and stood too close to him. It wasn’t fair that when he kissed Eames, Eames kissed him back. It wasn’t fair that every time they fell into each other in the bedroom, Eames never told him that it would be the last time.   
  
He was right now, though.   
  
“Sorry,” Eames said. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m a bit of a mess right now. I’ve been… I missed you like hell. And then time passed by, and I still missed you, but it got a little easier.”   
  
“Yeah?” Arthur asked, his voice quiet now.   
  
“Yeah,” Eames said, and then, because it was obvious and had been ten years ago and maybe there were things that just needed to be said aloud, “I still love you.”   
  
  


**

  
  
When he finally got back home, Ariadne was still up and reading in the drawing room. She asked him about Arthur. He didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t seem to mind. He’d had five cups of tea at Arthur’s house and two of them had been too much. He’d stared at Arthur and tried to make sense of every new detail. He caught Arthur up on the past ten years, but the more he talked, the more he realised that nothing had happened in his life. It was just this - this house and Ariadne and the silent agreement that their life could be much worse, and the feeling that he was waiting for something to change.   
  
Arthur had told him a few things about the last ten years. He wasn’t exactly sure if they were true or not. Arthur hadn’t been much of a liar before, but there was something new to him, sharp edges that could probably hide meanings. When Eames had told him he loved him, he had said nothing back, and then Eames had finally said that he knew it wasn’t fair to say something like that now when they hadn’t seen each other in ten years. Whatever they’d had before – but that was when Arthur had stopped him and offered him more tea.   
  
What they’d had ten years ago had been brief and messy and, frankly, a little embarrassing, but there had been enough of it for Eames to miss Arthur the next ten years. He was quite certain that at the time, he hadn’t thought about where it would lead. Arthur had thought about that too much. Later, when Arthur had been dead, Eames had been happy about his own ignorance. The heartache was terrible. The grief was terrible. Both seemed bearable in those romance novels he had read when he had been a boy. But that was a lie. He missed Arthur so badly that sometimes he thought it would kill him and sometimes he hoped it would, and every time he thought he had finally gotten over it, it found a way to come back to bite him. And it had changed him.   
  
Ten years ago, he had been twenty-three years old. Arthur had been twenty. He had never been in love before and he liked to think Arthur hadn’t either. If he had, maybe he would have known to fear the end.   
  
In the end, Arthur’s father had found out.   
  
“It’s not fair,” Arthur had said the morning he had told Eames he was going to sail to India. He was going to be a soldier for the East Indian Company. He’d said it like he had rehearsed it a million times.   
  
Eames went back to Arthur’s house the next day. Ariadne didn’t ask. It wasn’t snowing anymore and the streets were wet. Eames hadn’t taken the carriage, and when he was at Arthur’s door, he felt sweaty and out of breath and out of control.   
  
“It’s not going to happen this time,” he told Arthur the minute he walked in and the door was closed. “Your father’s not going to tell us to cut it off.”   
  
“My father’s dead,” Arthur said.   
  
Eames bit his lip. “I know. I’m sorry. I… I didn’t go to the funeral, I really didn’t think he would’ve wanted to see me there. He was a… you know that I never liked him, but it’s nothing personal, it was just…”   
  
Arthur stared at him.   
  
“It was very personal,” he said and tugged at his tie. To hell with all these clothes. He walked a tiny circle in Arthur’s drawing room and then sat down in the closest chair. “Anyway, I meant that this time, I’m not going to let anything stop us.”   
  
“Eames,” Arthur said in his most sensible voice. Eames wanted to shake him and then kiss him, and then maybe bend him over the table, but he hadn’t done anything like that in almost ten years.   
  
“I mean it,” he said instead, but Arthur looked sceptical anyway. “Your father’s dead. My parents don’t mind now that I’m married anyway. Dom and Mal have known for ten years. I’m going to have to say something to Ariadne but I suppose she’s guessed it by now.”   
  
“Eames,” Arthur said slowly, “nothing can happen.”   
  
“Why did you come back?”   
  
Arthur turned away from him. “To take over my father’s business.”   
  
“Then why did you stay away for so long?”   
  
Arthur took a deep breath.   
  
“Why the hell did you stay away for so long?” Eames asked. His voice wasn’t exactly steady but he couldn’t help it. “Why did you let me think you were dead? Why the fuck didn’t you write to me or something? Or come back? Why didn’t you –“   
  
“I thought it was easier that way.”   
  
“Easier for who?”   
  
“For both of us,” Arthur said. He looked like he was going to be sick. “It’s been ten years, Eames. There’s nothing left. We can’t just –“   
  
“There’s everything left. Everything’s the way you left it ten years ago.  _ I  _ am the way you left me.”   
  
“No,” Arthur said.   
  
“Yes,” Eames said. “What did you think?”   
  
“It was just a phase,” Arthur said, staring at him.   
  
Eames took off his coat, frustrated. “It wasn’t a fucking  _ phase. _ You never thought it was a phase.”   
  
“I thought it was. For you.”   
  
Eames opened his mouth and then closed it.   
  
“Dom told me so,” Arthur said, which wasn’t exactly news. Eames had known that ten years ago, after Arthur’s father had found the letters, Arthur hadn’t talked about it with Eames. He had talked about it with Dom instead, because for some goddamn reason he trusted Dom more. And Dom had told Arthur that maybe it would be better if Arthur left London for a while. Dom had told Arthur that Eames couldn’t be serious about him, because Eames wasn’t serious about anything. Eames was going to find a pretty woman from a good family and marry. Eames had a name and a title and a lot of money, and that was what the men with a name and a title and money did.   
  
Coincidentally, that was exactly what Eames had done, but only after Arthur had left him.   
  
“It wasn’t for me,” Arthur said, took a deep breath and sat down. “A phase, I mean. After I… when I thought I was never coming back, I kind of… stopped caring. I tried to be with women first. But there was nothing to it.”   
  
Eames stared at him.   
  
“Then I was with men,” Arthur said, leaned back in his chair and watched Eames calmly, as if he didn’t know Eames wanted to fight everyone Arthur had ever touched. “Fucked them,” Arthur said. Back then, he had never used the word. He had talked so vaguely that Eames had had to guess if he was talking about shagging or tea. “It really wasn’t a phase. I thought it’d be better if I didn’t come back.”   
  
“I’ve been thinking about you for ten years,” Eames said. “I haven’t been with anyone else.”   
  
“Really,” Arthur said.   
  
“Really,” he said.   
  
“Not even –“   
  
“Yeah. No.”   
  
“You don’t want children.”   
  
“I don’t think she does.”   
  
“That’s odd,” Arthur said in a heavy voice.   
  
“Nothing’s odd,” Eames said, “we’re just people, we’re all different, we want different things, and we shouldn’t expect to have the same life as everyone else when we  _ know  _ that we’re all different. I wanted to live with you.”   
  
“You didn’t tell me that.”   
  
“Yes, I did.”   
  
“No, you didn’t.”   
  
“I tried to. But you wouldn’t have listened.”   
  
“Yeah,” Arthur said, “no, I wouldn’t have.” He pulled his shoulders back. “I’m listening now.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“If you’re saying something.”   
  
“Yeah,” Eames said, “yes, I am. Come here.”   
  
Arthur smiled like he thought it was a joke.   
  
“Arthur.”   
  
“What do you think is going to happen?” Arthur asked.   
  
“I don’t know,” Eames said. “You tell me since you’re the one who’s been with all those men. Because I don’t know anything that I didn’t ten years ago. I don’t know any tricks. If I’m not enough for you –“   
  
“Eames,” Arthur cut in, “stop it. I didn’t mean that.”   
  
“You didn’t mean what?”   
  
“I meant,” Arthur said, “what happens afterwards. That’s what I meant. If we start fucking again, how’s it going to end? This is London.”   
  
Eames closed his eyes for a second. “It doesn’t have to end.”   
  
“Of course it does.”   
  
“Not this time.” He opened his eyes. “We’ll plan it. We’ll be clever about it. And we won’t listen to anyone who wants to separate us.”   
  
“Everyone wants to separate us,” Arthur said.   
  
“They won’t know,” Eames said, “and I don’t give a fuck about what other people think.”   
  
“This time.”   
  
There was some kind of a half-truth in that. Only after Arthur drowned had Eames started thinking he should have stopped Arthur from leaving. He should have tried. And he  _ had, _ he had tried to talk Arthur out of it once or twice, but Arthur had already made up his mind, and everything had been a mess, and maybe he hadn’t really meant it. Maybe he had asked Arthur to stay and Arthur had seen straight through him. Maybe he hadn’t believed it would be worth the hell they’d have to go through if Arthur stayed.   
  
“I’m not blaming you,” Arthur said, which was certainly a lie, but Eames appreciated the effort. “I’m just saying that it’s not like we can buy a house and live there together.”   
  
Eames cleared his throat. “Yeah. No, we can’t do that. But we aren’t kids anymore. People will talk behind our backs and we’ll ignore it. And if someone says something to our faces, we’ll look them in the eyes and tell them to mind their own business.”   
  
He could see Arthur breathing in and out.   
  
“And if it all goes to hell,” he said, “we’ll leave. For good. You did it once.”   
  
“You wouldn’t do that,” Arthur said, “for me. You’ve got a –“   
  
“A name and a title,” Eames said, “yeah, I know. Damned things. For ten years, I’ve been regretting letting you go. Come here, Arthur.”   
  
Arthur sat back in his chair. “You come here.”   
  
Eames swallowed. “Alright.” He thought Arthur looked surprised, but he couldn’t be sure, too many years had passed and he couldn’t tell anymore. He stood up slowly. Arthur stared at him. There was a clock ticking somewhere. Maybe inside his head. Maybe backwards. He’d dreamt of this, how they’d meet again, only in his dreams they were both dead. They were at the bottom of the sea, and everything was washed away, and he held Arthur’s face in between his hands and kissed him on the mouth, long and wet, and Arthur kissed him back, but only because they were already dead.   
  
He walked up to Arthur’s chair and stopped. Arthur looked up at him. Ten years ago, he had been the bigger one and Arthur had been slim and lanky and more than a little conscious about it, which had been adorable. Sometimes, in rare moments when it didn’t feel like their time was running out, he had kissed Arthur’s body all over and teased him about how young he looked, how slim his wrists were, how Eames could easily take him if they wrestled. And they had. And he had taken Arthur. Many times.   
  
Now Arthur stood up. He was still slim, but he was watching Eames as if he knew he could have Eames on his face on the floor in five seconds. Eames was still bigger, but he had also been drinking tea and reading newspapers for the last ten years.   
  
“Now what?” Arthur asked.   
  
“I don’t know,” Eames said, looking at him. “Anything.”   
  
“What you said yesterday –“   
  
“I meant it. I still love you.”   
  
“You never said it before.”   
  
Eames bit his lip. “I meant to. It’s just, it was so…”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“Difficult.”   
  
“I  _ know _ ,” Arthur said. He laid his hand on the back of Eames’ neck, thumb pressing lightly into the dip in his collarbone. Eames could feel it when he swallowed. He swallowed again. “You really haven’t touched anyone in ten years,” Arthur said.   
  
“Yeah. No. Only myself.”   
  
“Shit,” Arthur said, looking down Eames’ body. He wasn’t trying to hide it like he did ten years ago. Back then, they had been at Eames’ house and it had been the middle of the night. Arthur had been staying over in the guestroom and Eames just couldn’t stop thinking about him, even though at that point he only had a vague idea what exactly he was thinking about. Arthur’s throat, probably. Arthur’s hands. What it would be like to kiss Arthur. What it would be like if they were in bed, naked, their skin glued together, Arthur’s hands all over him, on his dick, too, doing the things he did for himself, but with patience, because Arthur would take his time, Arthur would want to see him, he thought, because Arthur had been watching him for some time now, quick glances over the room, slower ones in the late hours of the evening when they had both had quite a lot of wine.   
  
Then one night ten years ago, he met Arthur in the hallway and tried to find something to say but couldn’t. Arthur said something about not being able to sleep, and Eames walked to him and only stopped when he was standing too close. Arthur’s eyes moved back and forth on his face. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, but he could feel every indecent thought he had ever had about Arthur moving under his skin. He was going to kiss Arthur, but Arthur kissed him first.   
  
“Hey,” Arthur said now. His voice was hoarser than it had been. He had bags under his eyes and a faint scar over his left eye.   
  
Eames raised his hand and touched the scar with his thumb. “You can do anything you want with me.”   
  
“I don’t need revenge,” Arthur said. So he needed revenge.   
  
“Okay.”   
  
“I don’t blame you.”   
  
Lies, lies, lies.   
  
“I’m just saying,” Eames said. “You’re the one who’s got all these ideas about what two men can do together. Impress me.”   
  
Arthur looked angry at him for a second, which was exactly what he wanted. “Can’t you be serious for goddamn once?”   
  
“Yeah,” Eames said, “I can,” and then he took a step closer. It was a small step. But it put his knee in between Arthur’s thighs.   
  
For a man who didn’t need revenge Arthur surely knew what he was doing. He dragged Eames up onto his feet and kissed him so slowly he thought it was everything that was on the table, and then he would surely go mad. It had been  _ ten years. _ And when Arthur finally took him to the bed, he thought he was going to come untouched, or jump Arthur the first moment he could. Arthur didn’t give him the chance. Instead, he carefully took Eames’ clothes off and then his own. He didn’t let Eames touch any of the new marks or the tattoo on his left shoulder or the place on his stomach where it looked like someone had pushed a knife. He kissed Eames quickly, pulling back before Eames could realise what was happening, and laid on his back on the bed, with his knees sprawled and his head thrown back, and didn’t let Eames touch his dick or put his fingers in. He did it himself. He said it was going to be quicker this way. More convenient. Because Eames didn’t know what he was doing. He never had.   
  
And when he finally pulled Eames closer and let him settle in between his thighs and get his dick inside, he just kept him there. Unmoving. Eames pushed his elbows against the mattress and tried to keep still, but he was trembling all over, and he needed to move, he wanted to, he wanted nothing more than to fuck into Arthur now, just once, just once would probably be enough, and he couldn’t believe Arthur was here, that Arthur was alive, that Arthur hadn’t drowned in the foreign sea. He couldn’t believe that he had been to Arthur’s funeral and cried in his own room and wanked to a dead man for a decade and now the dead man was here, clenching around his dick, watching him as if he knew, as if he was counting everything Eames had ever done and thought and would decide if it was enough. If  _ Eames _ was enough. And he certainly wasn’t. He had let Arthur leave London. He hadn’t really tried to stop Arthur, no - he had only offered quiet fucks in dark rooms.   
  
He hadn’t told Arthur he loved him.   
  
“I love you,” he said now. Arthur was breathing hard and digging his fingers into Eames’ hips so tightly there would be bruises. “I fucking love you, Arthur. I love you.”   
  
“I don’t know if I believe that,” Arthur said. His voice was thin.   
  
“Trust me.”   
  
“I can’t,” Arthur said. “You don’t know the things that I’ve done.”   
  
“Then tell me.”   
  
“It felt like a dream,” Arthur said, “the time we were together - it felt like a dream. None of it was real. And it only happened because I wanted it so much.”   
  
“No,” Eames said.   
  
“I wanted you so badly,” Arthur said.   
  
“I’m here,” Eames said and leaned down to kiss Arthur on the mouth. He could only reach Arthur’s chin, so he kissed Arthur there instead, and then on his throat, and on his shoulder, and then he was about to kiss the tattoo, but Arthur stopped him.   
  
“Fuck me,” Arthur said.   
  
  
**

  
  
When Eames walked back home that night, his mind felt like a scrambled maze. He couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur’s fingers on his skin. He couldn’t stop thinking about the noises Arthur made when he finally let Eames fuck him. They had both been so quiet ten years ago. It was snowing again. And he couldn’t stop thinking of Arthur as a twenty-year old boy in his party one evening in early October in 1794. Arthur had come with Dom and Mal. He had stood in the corner, looking like he knew he wasn’t supposed to be there. He had money, but not that much, and he had a name, but not that kind of name. And Eames had seen him from across the room and walked up to him and introduced himself, only Arthur had already known who Eames was, of course.   
  
It had taken a few weeks for Eames to realise why he wanted to see Arthur again and again.   
  
He got back to the house. Ariadne wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Maybe she was out, or maybe she was already asleep. The shadows on the floor had sharp edges. Eames asked the maid to bring him tea and went upstairs to his bedroom, and then he stood there and stared at the bed where he had fucked Arthur for the last time, only he hadn’t known it was the last time. He had tried to kiss Arthur afterwards, but Arthur had already started pulling on his clothes. He remembered wondering why the hell Arthur had to be so skittish about it. So, alright, they were sleeping together, but who the fuck cared? Even if someone heard rumours, what could they do? What could go wrong?   
  
He slept poorly. In the morning, he had tea with Ariadne. She didn’t ask where he had been. He didn’t ask where she had been, but they talked a little about the weather. Around midday, the butler came to tell them that there was someone in the library who wanted to see Eames. He walked to the library with Ariadne.t It felt like walking on stage for a play. The butler opened the door to the library and Arthur turned slowly to look at him, and he looked at Arthur, and all the curtains were open, and all the lights were on, and the servants were watching, and Ariadne was there, and he was certain he had laid all his cards on the table.   
  
“Good day,” Arthur said. His face was perfectly calm.   
  
“Arthur,” Ariadne said. She was smiling and it looked genuine. She walked to Arthur and took his hand. “It’s so good to see you. We couldn’t believe it when we heard that you were alive after all.”   
  
Arthur smiled back but was still looking at Eames.   
  
“I think this is going to be great for Eames,” Ariadne said. “For the last ten years, he’s just been sitting here in our house, reading newspapers and drinking tea. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m afraid he’s getting a bit old. So maybe you can start getting him out of the house.”   
  
“Right,” Arthur said. His eyes were a little lost.   
  
“We have this country house in Yorkshire,” Ariadne says, “I suppose you know that. I think two of you should go there. For a few weeks. To catch up.”   
  
“Right,” Eames said.   
  
“Anyway,” Ariadne said, “I’m afraid I need to get going. It was nice to see you, Arthur.” She nodded at Eames and then walked out of the room.   
  
“What –” Arthur said.   
  
“Yeah,” Eames said. The butler was still there. He sent him off and forgot to ask for tea, but he didn’t think he could have swallowed anything now anyway. Arthur seemed smaller now that he was here again, in this house, right where they had met for the first time. He looked older, too. “I’m glad that you came,” Eames said.   
  
Arthur nodded slowly.   
  
  


**

  
  
They spent two weeks in the country house. Arthur said that there would be rumours, and Eames said that he was absolutely right and maybe they should put an announcement in the newspaper so that people wouldn’t have to wonder. He felt guilty right after, because of course he wasn’t going to announce this anywhere, and Arthur knew that very well. He liked to think that he was being braver about this than Arthur, but maybe his title and his money just made him reckless.   
  
But Arthur slept with him in the country house, in the main bedroom, and only stopped by the guestroom in the evening to ruffle the sheets, make it look like someone had slept there. Eames didn’t tell him that the servants probably knew anyway. Arthur didn’t ask. He slept in Eames’ bed and let Eames kiss him on the mouth and on other places, he dug his fingers into Eames’ shoulders when Eames settled down in between his knees and took his dick in his mouth, and sometimes he stroked Eames’ hair and said Eames’ name like a prayer when he was about to come. And on other nights, he let Eames fuck him in that bed, and sometimes he got onto his knees and elbows and bent his head down and didn’t say anything, and sometimes he settled them so that he was facing Eames, and Eames could see everything on his face, could see something twisting inside Arthur every time he pushed in and out. And once, when they had had a lot of whiskey after dinner, Arthur kept Eames on his back in the bed and sprawled his thighs and licked him in the places Eames hadn’t thought anyone would ever want to lick, and then he pushed his finger in and made Eames stay still, and Eames hadn’t thought that he would like this but he did, and he liked Arthur’s face, and he liked everything about Arthur, and he wanted to keep Arthur, forever.   
  
They came back to London and he didn’t see Arthur for a week. He tried to visit Arthur twice but Arthur wasn’t there. He walked around the house all day, drank so much tea that he felt sick, and couldn’t sleep. But the next Wednesday there was a note from Arthur, and Eames took the horse and rode to Arthur’s house and kissed Arthur on the mouth in the foyer. Arthur looked concerned and like he was trying to hide it.   
  
Sometimes Arthur was busy with his father’s business. Eames understood none of it. Once when they were at the same party, Eames saw Arthur talking to a woman with a pretty face and a good name. When Arthur left, Eames got into the same carriage with him, which he knew he shouldn’t have done but did anyway. Arthur was amused. Eames was not. But he came over to Arthur’s house and fucked Arthur before he finally mustered up the courage to ask if Arthur was planning to marry. Arthur didn’t answer but draped his arm over Eames’ waist and buried his face in the back of Eames’ neck and pressed light kisses there.   
  
Eames knew something was going to go wrong eventually, but he was determined to put it off as long as he could.   
  
He saw Dom sometimes, and Dom looked at him like he was certain that Eames was going to hurt Arthur. It wasn’t funny, but also Eames was certain Arthur was the one who was going to hurt him. He already knew how it felt - he dreaded it. The last time, it had almost ended him. This time, he wouldn’t survive it. But there was nothing he could do about that. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let go of Arthur before, one day, he would have to.   
  
  


**

  
  
Once, he was drinking tea in Arthur’s drawing room. He had slept in Arthur’s bed last night and stayed for breakfast. The light in the room was bleak like it often was early in the morning. The maid didn’t look him in the eyes. Arthur was sitting so close to him that when he shifted in his chair, his ankle brushed against Arthur’s leg. Arthur blinked. Last night, he had had Arthur on his back in the bed, and every time he had fucked into Arthur, Arthur had let out a tiny breath that almost sounded like he was surprised.   
  
“Hey,” Eames said now. He swallowed and had to put the cup of tea back on the table because his hand was shaking so hard.“I’m glad you came back.”   
  
Arthur looked at him. His face was calm. The maid had left the room, but Eames would bet she was still listening. Sometimes he thought everyone was. The whole world was, and they were holding their breath.   
  
“Yeah,” Arthur said, “me, too.”   
  
Eames opened his mouth and closed it again. The sunlight on the windows was drawing figures in the layers of dust. Arthur smiled at him, then put on the frown and started reading the newspaper. Everywhere it was silent.


End file.
